


Schadenfreude

by Rotpeach



Series: Goretober 2016 [3]
Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novel)
Genre: Gen, Goretober 2016, Snuff, Torture, Vomiting, autocannibalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-22 15:00:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8290013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rotpeach/pseuds/Rotpeach
Summary: "Don't be shy," he teases, "They wanna see your face.  Smile for the camera."





	

**Author's Note:**

> for goretober day 12 prompt, "torture"

Strade puts a black bag over your head.

“It’s just how I always start,” he says matter-of-factly as he test fires a taser close enough that it makes you flinch, the surge of electricity crackling loudly in the empty air.   “If they want to see your face, they have to pay extra.”

You’re not really listening.  You’re too busy mentally berating yourself for getting blackout drunk at a bar and ending up here in the first place, too busy wishing he’d just killed you yesterday or the day before and hating him for giving you enough time to really regret it all.  You didn’t see a lot before he put the bag on, just an unfinished stone floor with pipes crisscrossing on the ceiling and a single halogen bulb with a pull cord flickering in the middle of the room.  You didn’t see any furniture other than a refrigerator in the corner and a table against the front wall with a laptop.

And a camera.

It’s host and musty and you feel sweat running down the middle of your back as your panic builds.  You try to keep your breathing even as you tug at the ropes looped around your wrists and the pole behind you experimentally, but there’s not even a little give.

“Hey,” Strade says suddenly, and you freeze when you hear him come closer. “You’re feeling a little stage fright, aren’t you?”

You take a shaky breath, trying to figure out what he wants to hear.  “Yes?” you say uncertainly.

He pats your head over the garbage bag.  “Don’t worry,” he says, “Just act natural.”  Then he laughs, and you think you must be missing the joke.

(Or not.  The joke is probably that he does shit like this all the time, so what difference does a camera make?)

You hear his fingers move across the keyboard and then a long silence.  The wait is nearly unbearable as you realize what’s about to happen.  You wonder if this is live, if he’s watching the chat and asking what his audience wants to see. You wonder what they’re saying, what kind of fucking freaks must be watching. You don’t wonder too long, because then Strade’s footsteps are crossing the room, the ominous click of steel-toed boots on the stone floor renewing your efforts to try to free your wrists.

“How’re we doing, buddy?” he asks sweetly.

Almost honestly sweetly, like he actually cares, which just makes it even more upsetting.

You’re too terrified to answer and realize just a moment too late that he’s not going to like it if you’re quiet, and just as you open your mouth to reply you feel a knife plunging into your stomach, rammed in to the hilt and tearing a dozen different things.  It makes an ugly squelching sound like cutting into a hunk of raw beef as he twists his wrist to widen the wound, and whatever you were going to say turns into a scream instead.  You’re surprised to hear a chuckle come from beside you instead of in front and dimly realize he must be trying to give them a better view.

There’s a series of high-pitched pinging sounds from the computer speakers. Strade stops suddenly and you feel him leaning over your shoulder.  Then the bag is ripped off of your head and abandoned somewhere on the floor, and you see your dirty face mirrored on the screen, drying tear tracks and grime from sleeping on the basement floor on your cheeks.  The chat comes alive and you see messages scrolling up the screen and you whimper, not wanting to look at it, but Strade takes a fistful of your hair and tugs your gaze back up to the camera.

“Don’t be shy,” he teases, “They wanna see your face.  Smile for the camera.”

You shiver.

The chat keeps scrolling.  Strade squints at it.  “Ohhhh,” he purrs, pulling the bloodied knife from your body with another disgusting slicing sound, “They like you.  They think you have a cute face.”

He’s hard now; you can feel him through his jeans when he presses against you.  You take a shuddering breath as he shifts, letting go of your hair and letting you rest your neck.  The next thing you know, he’s cutting haphazardly through your shirt, slitting it down the middle and leaving a few bloody lines on your skin in the process.  The sheared fabric falls to the floor around your feet and you shiver at the cold air hitting your skin.

“You wanna lift your leg for me?” he asks kindly, and you hear him already unzipping your pants.  You really, really don’t want to, but he still has the knife in his other hand, still covered in your blood, and you know he’s just giving you the illusion of choice.  Why isn’t he just cutting off the rest of your clothes?  Did the faceless voyeurs on the other side of the livestream ask for this, too?  They want to see him undress you slowly?  Your face burns with embarrassment. You take a deep breath and help him get your pants off.  Mercifully, he lets you keep your underwear.

You gasp when one of his hands reaches around and strokes your stomach, massaging the skin in a suggestive manner just above the waistline of your underwear.  His breathing is labored in your ear as he rocks his hips against you.

“You’re a little more relaxed now,” Strade rumbles, suckling on your earlobe, “You like this?  You want me to touch you more?”

You bite your lip, shame heating your face.  You hear the pinging of the chat continue to scroll rapidly up the screen, know people are watching, are getting off on this.  You feel filthy.

“No?” Strade asks softly, and you realize you didn’t answer quickly enough again, “You don’t want that?”

“W-wait, I—!”

“You want something more than that, right?  That’s what they think, too.  They think you’re a slut for punishment.”

You choke on another scream, stammering out a miserable whine when Strade stabs into your abdomen again in a different spot, drawing the knife agonizingly slowly to join the main incision.  You feel blood pouring out, wetting your underwear.  You hear it dripping on the stone floor below you.

“Maybe you are,” he says, “You make some nice noises when I do this.”

You wheeze, trying to catch your breath, but you don’t have any time to recover.  Strade saws around whatever hard tissue and bone he finds, shredding everything else inside of you.  There’s another series of pings and Strade slows his actions.  Then you hear him laughing.

“Hey, buddy.”

You shake your head, tears rolling down your cheeks.  You can’t; you can’t do this.  You don’t want to talk to him, don’t want to be a part of this anymore.  You feel cold, feel yourself bleeding out.  You want to ask him to just end it now.

You hear a loud crackling and feel a sudden sting before your whole body is filled with heat and pain.  You find your voice again when a scream tears out of your throat and you hang your head, panting, heaving.  

“I’m talking to you,” Strade says, shaking the taser at you, “Don’t just ignore me, alright?”

Bile rises uncontrollably and you gag until you vomit pale, bitter liquid all over the floor, dripping down your chin.  Somehow, this makes the chat move faster. _“More,”_ they’re saying, _“give us more,”_ and you begin to hyperventilate.

“They wanna know why you just threw up bile,” he comments, prodding you with the inactive conductors on the tip of the taser and making you flinch, “Why there’s no food down here.”  

Your gaze flicks down and you see that you threw up on his shoes.  You’re filled with dread, hoping you die before he asks you to clean it up.  The taser presses into your skin again and you stammer hoarsely, “D-didn’t eat anything.”

“Who’s fault is that?” he asks, “I offered you something earlier and you turned it down.”

You just shake your head, whimpering.

“They think we should really stop and give you a bite.”

You hear the knife clatter to the floor and breathe heavily, filled with disbelief.  It can’t really be over, can it?  It can’t be over yet.  This isn’t like him.  He walks behind you and you don’t know what to think.

That’s when he reaches around and plunges both hands into your stomach wound, pulling the skin apart with his fingers, prodding and pulling at everything in your abdominal cavity and you discover you do still have it in you to scream some more.  He yanks a handful of viscera free and with one filth-covered hand, he touches your cheek.  “Open up, buddy,” he says, and you hear how he’s nearly breathless, excited about this, “Aren’t you hungry?”

It smells musty and coppery and suffocating.  You don’t want to.  You don’t _want_ to do it.  You frown tightly, shuddering, until he steps down on your bare toes with his boot and your mouth falls open in a pained gasp.  He holds your jaw in place with one hand and the other comes into your line of sight.

You don’t even know what he’s holding.  It’s a gross, fleshy lump glistening in the low light.  It smells rancid, and you can barely keep from gagging at the odor.

“Gotta eat it all up,” Strade says excitedly, “That’s what they want.”

You can’t.  You _can’t._  A silent moment passes before there’s one single, ominous ping from the computer, and then Strade sighs. “Guess they don’t wanna wait anymore,” he says, and then he jams it down your throat, arm scraping against your teeth.  He retracts his hand when you start to gag again, stomach heaving until the organ falls from your mouth and splatters wetly on the floor, but he just bends to pick it up.  “You gotta try harder than that,” he says sternly.

 _This is hell,_ you think, _this is literally hell and I must already be dead._  The smell, the heat, the pain, the _taste_ —it’s too much for you to take anymore.

The last thing you see before you black out is what might be your own liver being crammed back into your blood-filled mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> (i keep forgetting to post the good ones here lol)


End file.
